A Golden Thorn
by OccasionallyCreative
Summary: Forcibly married to Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper finds her new husband cold and isolated and disinterested in her, in more ways than one. But as Molly uncovers more about her husband, she finds that a part of his past could prove to be the key to her discovery of true happiness.
1. A Marriage of Convenience

_**Author's Note: **So, this is a historical fic, set in about the period of the 15th century, more or less. It's based on a prompt sent in to me pretty much months ago by Tumblr user, **numachae. **The prompt in question was this: "Sherlock and Molly have been in a fake marriage for almost two years; the first 10 months was (of course) for Sherlock's case then it has been for Molly's honour. Their marriage has been peaceful but distant. Irene Adler came back to reclaim Sherlock. Heart broken, Mrs. Holmes was to give up her long... unfulfilled love for her husband. Will Sherlock let her?"_

_However, I changed the prompt around a bit, in ways that will become clear as this fic goes on. Well, I say 'goes on' - this fic is actually going to be a two parter. But considering how long it took for me to write this first part, and the fact I have two assignments due over the Christmas/New Year period, don't hope for a quick update on the second part. But hey, I might surprise you all. I guess it all depends really. The 'M' rating is for the next part, in case anyone's wondering. Smut is_ _\- ahem - coming, I promise._

_As always, I hope you enjoy reading, and please don't forget: favourites are great, follows are lovely and reviews make me feel all warm and cushy inside._

* * *

"Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one's life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways; perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music, perhaps … perhaps … love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship_,_ as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath." ~ _L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Avonlea._

* * *

Her heart felt as if it had slowly turned to stone. Where once it had kept her alive, it was now little more than a dead, rotten weight. Strange silks constricted against it, shortening her breaths. She tempered them as she gazed into her reflection, and she tried to quash the loneliness in her eyes with a little smile.

The skirts of her gown pooled at her feet, and she felt her fingers brush against them absentmindedly, her attention still focused on the mirror in front of her. Behind her stood her maid, a young and dark-haired lady with a soft brogue and a genial, sharp smile. She smiled as she carefully brushed her fingers through the hair of her mistress, arranging the soft brown tendrils into an appearance suitable enough for a bride.

"You look glum, milady," the girl said, a comment to which Molly Hooper smiled.

"No, not at all. I was only… lost in thought." It almost amazed her, how easily the lie tripped off her tongue.

* * *

_I do not wish to marry him._ The sentence ran through her mind, pleading with her to be released, yet she remained silent. He was of a handsome countenance, yes, and he was rich, but he was strange; cold and aloof. She had always heard of the sensation other ladies termed 'courtly love', and she had often hoped she might have experienced it, but now she stood there in the middle of the Great Hall, her hand in her father's and her head bent low as she curtsied, she soon realised that to have such a hope was hollow.

Her father smiled and stepped forward to hold out her hand towards the man she was to marry. He dutifully took her hand without hesitation and pressed a swift kiss to her skin before he let her drop it back to her side. She fought the temptation to scratch or rub at her hand and instead listened as the man spoke, looking to her father.

"She's well enough," he said flatly. "And the dowry you offer is more than acceptable. I suppose you should want the marriage to take place as quickly as possible?"

Her father gave a nod. "But we can wait if you have business you need to attend to, sire."

"No, I am free of any obligations." The man looked back to her, and if she were not focused on her own thoughts, she might have seen the ghost of a smile that appeared at the edges of his mouth. He turned back to her father. "The wedding shall take place a week from Saturday."

Her father spluttered in surprise, and Molly raised her head to see her betrothed quickly make his way from the hall. Her father gave chase, running quickly over to the man.

"But nothing has been arranged – sire!"

"On the contrary," the man called brightly over his shoulder as he reached the doors. He glanced back at her. "Everything has been attended to. The only thing you really need to do, Lord Hooper, is make sure your daughter attends."

Giving one last nod of his head, the man left. Her father remained where he was, frowning in puzzlement.

"Lord Holmes is a strange man indeed." He looked to his daughter and smiled again for her benefit. "But I am sure you shall be happy with him."

"Of course I will Father," she said, but she did not smile. She continued to stare at the doors where once her betrothed had stood. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. "How could I not?"

* * *

The ceremony went as expected, but her heart was still heavy. It grew heavier still as she felt his hands take hers and slip the ring onto her finger. She smiled genially from the moment of her arrival, blushing as a bride was meant to do and she graciously accepted the congratulations given to her by the guests.

Such behaviour lasted all throughout the wedding feast too. Opulent and richly coloured decorations hung from the ceilings and against the walls, lively music was played by the musicians, people danced, children laughed, food was eaten, men cheered drunkenly and dogs waited patiently for scraps. Her husband however, seemed to show little to no interest in the events of the feast. Instead, he sat at the table, a wine goblet in his hand (though he barely drank from it) as his eyes traced lazily over the gentry that surrounded both him and his new wife. To her, he paid little attention but among such landed gentry as this, such behaviour was regarded as the norm and as such, no-one neither questioned it nor pitied her.

Indeed, the only person her husband seemed to pay attention to was Lord Watson, a well-born and well-bred man who had gained social prominence and wealth in his adventures as a noble soldier and knight of the realm. Unlike any other guest who had attempted to speak to her husband, he was not brushed aside with a comment or a civil but cold smile, but actually received his full attention. Through the noise and clamour of the feast, she heard snatches of conversation exchanged between the two men.

"You might have told me—" The jovial screech of an instrument covered the remaining parts of Lord Watson's sentence. The very fringes of it were what she picked up. "This is ludicrous—"

"Don't be ridiculous, she's perfectly amiable—"

"You realise this—" Lord Watson was cut off again, but on this occasion, the action was voluntary. Catching her gaze, he swallowed back a gulp, straightened up, nodded once to her and moved away, weaving through the crowd. Molly looked to her husband briefly before she immediately turned her head. There had been a rushed, clipped, angry tone to both voices that had told her this was not a matter to be shared between a husband and his wife. (That did not stop her however, from wondering what matter it was.) Taking a breath, she lifted her goblet to her lips and took a gulp of the sweet-tasting wine that filled it.

"They call that nectar." The voice of her husband took her by surprise, and as she looked to him, she found a wide smile on his lips. He raised an eyebrow. "But owing to your reaction, I'd say you don't much enjoy it."

She brushed her fingers against the side of her goblet and fought back a blush. "It is too sweet for my taste, my lord."

"Too sweet?" He laughed without mirth. "Others might say it was sweet enough."

"I still say it is too sweet," she murmured, and somehow, through the raucous noise of the feast, he heard her. For a moment, she had the greatest fear she had angered him somehow, but when he gave a small shrug, that fear temporarily subsided.

"I maintain it is sweet enough. Sweet enough to be disgusting," he said. An almost malicious grin flicked onto his mouth but before she could reply, he had leaned towards her. His hand brushed against her hair as he whispered into her ear.

"You can cease pretending now."

She froze, and the genial smile she had borne for much of the day and the evening died away. He had known? This whole time, he had seen through her pretence? The fear she thought had subsided whirled through her again. She heard him stand and heard him speak to the guests, but she did not hear the words spoken. She felt him grip at her hand and pull her onto her feet. More cheers sounded, and he led her quickly from the dining hall and down a stone corridor. The cheers echoed.

* * *

He made no more mention of her pretence, nor did he seem to be angered. In fact, he did not speak a word to her but rather continued to steer her through the corridor. The orange glow of candlelight flickered across his features, and for the first time, she saw just how handsome his features really were. Out of both an internal rebellion and fear of her new husband, she had never quite let herself fully look at him; true, she had allowed herself brief moments and small glances, but she had never stared at him in the way that she did now.

He was not at all like the paintings which she had so often looked at. They had depicted their heroes as strong and romantic, astride a horse and clad in armour as they charged into battle. He was lithe in build, with sharply cut features. His eyes however, as he turned to look at her, she saw now that the colour seemed to shift with the light. In this dark corridor, they were almost indigo, but in the light of the day, she remembered them to be the clearest shade of azure.

And as he let her hand go and pushed open a large wooden door, she reflected that if they weren't husband and wife, she might have felt she could trust him.

The bedchamber he escorted her into was much as she expected it to be. Wedding decorations filled the walls and the corners of the frankly expansive room, but unlike the corridor, the only light in the room was the moonlight, filtered into colour by the glass window opposite her. A fire burned dimly in the grate, the last few embers just about clinging to life. She homed in on the centre of the room, where stood the bed, silken bed sheets and furs spread across it, plain and untouched.

She felt herself tug a little at her sleeves. Her insides were turning, twisting themselves into knots and bunches. Pressing a hand lightly to her stomach, her eyelids fluttered shut. Nerves; that was all it was. Only nerves.

The sound of a door creaking open caused her to open her eyes once more. She turned her head, and a smile grew over her lips. Her maid curtsied, first to her and second to her husband.

"I had her brought over from your father's household – thought her presence might made you a little more comfortable here," he explained quickly, his clipped tone erasing whatever scrap of sentiment might have been behind his words.

"Thank you sire," Molly said softly. Her maid stepped forward and took her gently by the arm.

"Come milady. You're to be washed and dressed."

The beginnings of a question stuttered from her lips, but she soon drew it back. She was a married woman. There was little reason why she should inquire what her duties now included. So she gave a small nod and allowed herself to be led from the main bedchamber.

* * *

Her maid was far too efficient in cleaning her, and as she felt her scrub diligently at her back, Molly's unease continued to grow. The knots continued to twist. More maids, strangers to her, entered. They bowed demurely to her and the chief of them, one Mrs Hudson—as she so introduced herself—warmly invited her to step out of the bath. With shaking limbs, she did so and she stayed perfectly still as the maids went about their work, perfuming and dressing her. The nightgown they had chosen for her was extravagant in its make, with pearls stitched into the silken collar, tied together at the tops of her breasts by a thin stretch of rich green ribbon. The rest of the garment was composed of white cotton, and its length fell down to her ankles. She would've admired its beauty a lot more closely if she had not been so preoccupied by her thoughts.

With more kind words, Mrs Hudson guided her into another extravagantly made garment, this time a robe also of rich green, black velvet patterned intricately into the heavy silk fabric and the collar lined with fur. With deft fingers, Mrs Hudson tied the rope of the gown around her waist and lifted her hands up to briefly touch and arrange at Molly's hair, twisting it around until it rested on her shoulder.

"You're a very beautiful girl," she said, stepping back. "Lord Holmes will be pleased, I'm sure."

"I'm sure," she echoed, a small but meaningless smile on her lips. Mrs Hudson's smile grew and she took her gently by the hand to lead her back into the bedchamber where her husband waited, the maids following on behind.

When they entered, they found him sat on the edge of the bed, lost in thought, his fingers tucked under his chin. He was no longer dressed in his wedding clothes, but had instead switched to a shirt and set of trousers. On seeing their arrival, he dismissed the servants away with little to no instruction but instead a slight wave of his hand. Mrs Hudson nodded once and ushered the maids from the room, and Molly briefly watched them leave until her husband's voice brought her attention back to him.

"Your father tells me you prefer the name of Molly."

She nodded. "Yes sire. It – distances me."

"Distances you from what?"

"My mother. Lady Margaret. She died giving birth to me – I was named after her. I am sure she was a beautiful woman, but all the stories, all her good deeds – I do not wish to associate myself with her – legacy," she finished, fiddling at the edges of her sleeves with her fingers. Her husband said nothing to her ramblings, but only stood and moved slowly towards her. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and she listened as he continued to take regular and methodical steps over to where she stood. When all she saw were the tips of his boots, she finally looked up. His look was not one of greed, nor was it one of desire. It was actually one of study. It was the same look he had worn on the day of their far too rapid betrothal.

"I shall sleep on the left side," he said quickly, a short intake of breath preceding his speech. "The only times you will disturb me are if you believe you're about to die, or find yourself in any other similar emergency. Do you understand me?"

"Yes sire," she whispered, though she could not understand two things. One: she simply could not understand his behaviour. What had the ritual been for, if he were to just ignore her? Did she repulse him that much? And two: why, if he had provided her with a temporary release from the duty she so feared, did she still feel so nervous?

He did not appear to take notice of her nerves; instead, he stepped away from her and sat on the bed in order to remove his shirt. Like his features, his body was lean and far from the more broad or muscular forms of his guards. He inclined his head towards her. A smile of understanding slowly appeared on his lips.

"Aha – I see it now. You're confused. Don't be." He stood to fold his shirt, speaking as he did so. "Despite my brother's insistence on the fact, I don't believe that consummation is all that is relevant to marriage."

"Relevant?"

He tugged a long nightshirt over his shoulders as he spoke. "You are my wife, I am your husband and we were married in the eyes of God. That's enough. The ancient tradition of consummation is a tired one, and not one I feel we need to indulge in."

"Oh." That was the only sound that escaped her lips and although he had given no cause for nerves—in fact, he had practically discouraged them—she still approached the bed with caution, her eyes averted from his as she climbed into the bed and lay her head against the pillow. His body was cold against her, unmoving and unwelcoming. Curling her knees tightly against her chest, she fell, slowly, into a fitful, and dreamless, sleep.

* * *

The next morning, she rose late and alone. The cold of the winter touched at her as she clambered out of bed and she, a shiver heading rapidly down her spine, clutched at her dressing gown, throwing it onto her shoulders to wrap it tightly around her body. A maid, fresh-faced in her smile, stepped inside and immediately set to work, stripping the bed of its sheets and making no mention of the lack of blood. The pristine, blank sheets bit at her, far more harshly than any winter wind. They spoke of her shame; of her failure. With a bowed head, she let the maid depart and only when the girl was gone did she allow herself to sit down and press her hands into her hair.

She did not know how long she spent, sat in that cold, hard chair, lost in the haze of her thoughts but it was voices, distant, heated in tone but tempered in volume, which brought her back, sharply, into reality. One voice, the more defensive of the two, was her husband's. The other she knew only in passing. Standing, she held her gown around her waist and moved towards the door, stepping down the stone steps and towards the voices. She stepped out into the dining hall and found, stood by the roaring fireplace, her husband and another man, tall yet portly. The man's gaze fell on her, and Molly gently curtsied, bowing her head. She had only met Mycroft Holmes for a short moment before, during the festivities of her wedding. There, he had worn an expression of vague concern; an expression that was not too dissimilar to the one he wore on her entrance to the dining hall. As with the wedding, his gaze did not linger on her but instead focused back onto his brother.

"I find it difficult to believe you, brother." Her husband only scoffed at the words of his brother. Mycroft tilted his head. "Where is your proof?"

"I have it," came her husband's icy reply. What had caused this rift between the two brothers was unclear, but it was rooted deep within their words and their mannerisms. So tight, so controlled—so _isolated_ from one another. Molly's head turned as a door opened and a maid stepped through, a bundle of sheets in her arms. On a silent command from her master, she laid them out on the long table. Crimson against the white, sticky with wetness, the droplets of blood were easy to see. Mycroft did not immediately look to his brother, but to her.

"So you performed your duty, Lady Holmes?"

Lady Holmes. An uncomfortable fit and one she was destined to wear for a lifetime. She smiled, and gave one, single nod. Seemingly satisfied, though choosing to say nothing—as seemed to be his way—Mycroft Holmes departed from the hall. Only when his absence was assured did her husband begin to move, striding towards the fireplace and sitting as the maid, her eyes dutifully lowered, gathered up the bloodied sheets and left. Molly blinked and briefly rubbed at her eyes. She could still see it; the crimson, so at war with the white of the bed sheets. Somehow, that stung far more than any blank, pristine sheets could.

"I take it by your silence that you feel somewhat guilty about lying." Her husband glanced at her. His brow furrowed. A tiny, imperceptible smile lightened his features. "No… you're feeling guilty, but not for the lying itself."

He was right. She fidgeted again with the sleeves of her gown, pulling them down over her fingers. It was not the act of lying that had caused her to be so nervous indeed, but rather, what she had felt after the act. She had expected, had waited, for it to become a burden for her to bear, to feel ashamed that she had obeyed her husband in such a wilful act of deceit. It had never come. Relief; that was what she had felt. A wave of relief on knowing that, at least for now, her failure was still a secret, only shared by her and her husband.

Her husband sighed lightly, rising to his feet. "If you're in truly desperate need of me, I shall be in the library. Until that time, you're free to do whatever you wish. Explore, read – it's of little consequence to me."

She bowed her head, but she turned, her gaze following him as he made to leave.

"My lord…" He seemed to start at this, his fingers twitching against the door, and he stared at her, that same expression of study flickering across his features. She swallowed, words dissolving on her tongue until she was only able to gesture hopelessly towards the prepared table.

"I thought perhaps – you might want some breakfast."

"No." He shook his head, and it seemed clear that his answer had already been decided, long before she had spoken. Did he really loathe her all that much? He cleared his throat. "Good day."

* * *

The first time Molly had encountered a horse, she had been a little under five years of age. Her father's horse, it was an imposing creature, with a pure white coat, but an uneasy temperament. It whinnied and threw its head about, but when she had given out a cry and hurried behind her father, clutching at the hem of his cloak, her nurse had only laughed and picked her up, guiding her towards the horse. With soft words, she had urged Molly to lean forward and press her hand against the horse's snout, promising that no harm would ever come to her. The horse's eyes were dark, and its ears twitched as she, tiny as she was, tentatively obeyed, her anxious frown melting away into a smile when, underneath her touch, the horse had calmed. From that day on, Molly had grown ever fonder of riding, and so it was with a smile that she rode the long, winding path away from the castle and her husband, towards the landscape of the town.

The marketplace was a place where the air was thick with the scent of smoke from the burning braziers, and where conversation filled the silence. Molly, easing her horse down to a walk, with sweet and acrid scents passing her, smiles or nods directed at her, made her way through the marketplace.

"Good mornin', milady." Such a call caused her to pull her horse to a stop, and she turned to see a young man, skinny in form and scruffy in appearance, fresh pig's blood staining his fingertips, heading down the dusty path. He didn't smile, but he gave a nod in greeting.

"Good morning," she replied, though her eyes traced over the young man's apron. Dirtied by mud, the shade of blood that he wiped so hurriedly upon it was starkly familiar. She tightened her grip on the reins of her horse. "What's your name?"

"Billy, milady. Billy Wiggins. Butcher's son."

She swallowed, tightening her grip on the reins. "And you do your service to Lord Holmes?"

Unblinking, he held her gaze. "I do as he wishes, yes."

That was all their conversation entailed, but it more than easily served as confirmation of what she already had suspected. Her secret was not simply between her and her husband. Turning her head away, she urged her horse into a trot and continued on. Before long, she was squeezing the sides of her horse and holding on even tighter as her mare galloped eagerly down the main path. She continued to ride until she had ventured away and out of the marketplace towards the outskirts of the town. There, it was quieter; the air was not tinged with smoke and conversation was scarce.

Coming up to the head of the path, she found herself facing a small stone building, a bell tower its most prominent feature. Dismounting from her horse, she approached. Inside the church was dark, with only one window through which the afternoon light danced. Through the dim light, she saw an altar. Stood at that altar was a figure, swathed in the robes of a friar, with his hands pressed together in the gesture of prayer. Silently, Molly sat herself at the back, lowering her head and letting her eyes flutter closed. If there was ever a day to pray, then this was it.

"Good day to you, young lady." She gasped, the sound echoing, and she looked up to see the friar still stood by the altar, but now facing her, his hood drawn away from his face. He was grey-haired, but there was a handsome youth in his aged features. He smiled warmly. "Greg Lestrade. Doubt I need to tell you that I'm the friar."

"Oh. Lady Molly Hoop—" She paused, and gave a smile. "Holmes."

"Ah. Well then – good day, milady." Lestrade stepped away from the altar, still with that same warm, gentle smile, and sat himself beside her. "I suppose you come to pray."

"You suppose correctly, friar."

"People often do around these parts. Either that or they come down to tell me what I'm doing wrong." Lestrade chuckled, looking to her. "So – what are you praying for?"

Usually, she would've had an answer for him. She would've told him how she often prayed for her soul, and for the souls of her loved ones, and how, in her prayers, she would wish upon them a blessed and contented life. Today though, she had no such answer. Today, she prayed for no-one but herself.

"I pray for many things," she answered finally, smoothing her fingers over her skirts. "What do you pray for, friar?"

"Like you – many things." The only difference between them being that he meant his answer. She swallowed a little.

"Friar?" He made a low, assenting noise at the back of his throat, but it did not serve as any kind of comfort. Head lowered, she bit at her bottom lip. "I believe – I need to ask a question."

She eyed him carefully, but he only remained impassive to her nerves. Somehow, that seemed to soothe her. She let out a shaky breath. "If you had to lie in order to save someone, from either physical harm or just – embarrassment, would that – would that still be regarded as a sin? Would it, in the eyes of God, be wrong?"

His warm smile returned and he shook his head, letting out a gentle sigh.

"I believe… I believe that if the end justifies the means, and the intentions of the lie were good, then God will forgive."

His words, though short and concise, seemed to lighten the weight she had put so heavily onto her shoulders, and she straightened up, giving the smallest of smiles. "Thank you, Friar. Your words are a great help."

"I always aim them to be. Your husband would disagree of course." Lestrade stood and moved back towards the altar, drawing his fingers against his chest in a cross and he began to light two large candles. "He's often held little patience for God's teachings – or mine, for a matter of fact."

"You know my husband then?"

Lestrade glanced at her, his warm smile still in place.

"Ever since I set foot inside this parish." He continued on with his work, lighting the candles along the walls of the church. "He was younger then – but definitely no less obstinate. I've tried many times to convince him to attend the church alongside his brother – but he's always held more interest in study and his library. I've never known him to show interest in anything else, except—"

Molly rose to her feet. That weight, she could feel it, pressing back down upon her. She stepped forward. "Except what?"

Lestrade paused in his work, considering her; but whatever he had to say, he clearly did not think her worthy enough to hear, for he only shook his head and attempted to turn away.

"Except what, Friar?" Molly pressed, to which Lestrade sighed, running his hand over his face as he turned back to face her. There was a pity in his eyes, a spark of sympathy that only ignited her curiosity.

"There – there was a woman – some years ago."

"A woman?" she echoed. "My husband has been married before?"

It was not uncommon, for a man to take a second wife if widowed. Lestrade's smile waned.

"No, milady."

Oh. "Did this woman have a name?"

"I confess milady, I never knew it. He only ever referred to her as 'The Woman'."

_The_ Woman. More questions hesitated on her tongue, flooding out as nothing but whispered stutters. Yet Lestrade, sympathy shining so clearly and obviously in his eyes, only cleared his throat and bowed his head, unwilling to say more. Maybe he couldn't. Perhaps that was the extent of his knowledge. The thought certainly lessened the sting of it. Swallowing thickly, she bid Lestrade a quiet goodbye, and let the chapel door slam behind her.

* * *

On returning to the castle, she found her husband in the library, quiet as he read, stood by the hearth. She did not announce herself as she moved forward, but even if she had, she doubted he would've registered her. His attention was seemingly consumed by the paper he held in his hand.

"You should learn to announce yourself." She jumped at his words, her eyes flicking up to see his blue eyes staring straight at her. Blinking once, he looked back to the letter. Sharply, his pliable fingers ripped at the parchment and scattered the remains into the fire. Running his fingers through the curls of his hair, his footsteps echoed against the stone floor, the dogs loyally following on behind him as he made his swift departure.

She did not leave it a second before she ran towards the hearth, only to see nothing more than charred pieces of parchment. Her shoulders sank. Despondent, she made to leave the library in her husband's wake. It was a sound, a slight scratch against her skirts that caused her to stop and look down. There, just underneath her skirts, she saw the smallest scrap of parchment. Her eyes narrowed. If this had been any other occasion, she might have dismissed it as a piece of a puzzle she would never be able to put together. On this occasion, her eyes gleamed over the parchment she picked up and held between her fingers. She knew it was something she would be quite unable to forget. A signature, deftly written, but no name. Only two words: _The Woman._

She scrunched the parchment up between her fingers and threw it into the fire. Blankly, she watched, until it was nothing more than a scorched, hollow husk.

* * *

It was evening before she was allowed the chance to speak to her husband. Washed, dressed and escorted into the bedchamber, she found him already in bed, sat up with his eyes trained on a book. If any trace of their earlier encounter had remained in his memory, it was not to be found in either his expression or his words, which merely consisted of a brief greeting and a nod of the head. Quietly dismissing her maid, Molly approached the bed and slipped inside, the new material of the bed sheets cold against her skin. Silently, she leaned away from her husband to blow out the candle light.

"Are you unhappy?"

She stilled, and blinked, but did not look around. Her husband, this man who had been so far cold and unfeeling and perplexing to her, was asking her if she was unhappy?

"I can see it." His brow furrowed. "Is that how wives are meant to feel?"

She did not deign him with an answer. (How could she, when she didn't know the answer herself?) Behind her, she heard his sigh, and felt his body slide down next to hers.

"My lord—" She spoke in a whisper and swallowed, her fingers tracing against the material of the bed sheets. The Woman. Not the girl, not the friend, not the lover, not the wife. The _Woman._ Another piece of the puzzle. "Why did you marry me?"

"We will go out riding tomorrow," he said after a moment. "You'll know then."

It was an answer, at least. Silently, she blew out the candle.

* * *

It became apparent to Molly that her husband had no idea or even inkling of her love for riding as soon as they stepped into the stables together. While it did create some offence to her for her husband to immediately assume that someone as small and fragile as her could never have rode before, she did, admittedly, find some secret amusement in watching the way in which he subtly reminded the stable lad to help her with the preparation of her horse, and found more amusement in the small frown that covered his features when she waved the stable boy away.

"So, you ride then?"

She nodded as she prepared her horse. "Ever since I was a small girl."

"Hm." Her husband swung himself onto his saddle, looping his fingers around the reins of his horse, watching as she followed suit. With a small smile, she gently squeezed the sides of her horse and it trotted easily from the stables, her husband's horse falling into step with hers. Again, he was looking at her with that familiar look of study.

"Where are we going?"

"Straight up," he answered, pointing. "Towards the crest of the hill. Now, how about a race?"

"A race?" she echoed, blinking in wonderment. When she looked to him, his gaze was almost what she might've termed playful. What had caused this change, she did not know. The man she had encountered yesterday, so cold and distant, was so vastly at odds with the man now presented to her. Her husband's mouth flicked up with a smile.

"Yes. Would make the journey go by faster, don't you think?"

He didn't allow for an answer. Letting his smile loosen into a grin he tugged at his horse's reins and began to gallop forwards, his cloak billowing out behind him. His laugh, low, full-bodied and welcoming, sounded out over the air and it was a sound she knew she would never forget. Quickly, Molly urged her horse on and her laughter made her heart lift. She looked to her husband, and for the first time, he looked upon on her not as if she were a burden or a puzzle or a mystery. The knowledge was freeing.

Coming up to the crest of the hill however, her laughter faded away, and she brought her horse to a stop. Settled deep within the valley beyond, its high walls grey against the early morning, a castle stood. Coming to a stop beside her, her husband stared out into the valley and let out a disinterested sigh, fiddling a little with his reins.

"That castle belongs to my family. It has done for generations. I and my brother – we were raised there." He lowered his gaze. "A short time ago, a threat was made against it. Lord Moriarty – he was seeking to expand his family's lands. He was particularly eager to acquire the castle you see there."

"Why?"

Her husband shrugged. "Why not? My brother tried to pay him off, but, in the end, there was only one thing that could be done."

She looked away. The meaning of his words brought a stunning amount of clarity to her situation. "So you bound yourself to me – in front of God…"

And all for the sake of a castle. All her husband could apparently do was give one solitary shrug.

"Everyone has to make sacrifices," he remarked, and Molly felt her heart sink. She was nothing more than a convenience to him, he had made no qualms about the fact, and he dared to wonder why she was unhappy and quiet and still. The only comfort she could find was to think that her husband did not have the true knowledge of how deeply his words could hurt; but even that she could not truly believe.

"Some more than others," she murmured. Turning her horse, she made to ride away, back down the hill.

"We'll be living there." She glanced over her shoulder at him, and saw him mirroring her, staring at her, his expression as always unreadable and his thoughts unattainable. "In the summer months. Would you like me to ride back with you?"

Terming their marriage a sacrifice one minute, making polite offers of friendship the next. A contradictory man indeed. She shook her head.

"No, my lord. I would – prefer to be alone."

His eyes flickered with some unspoken, unknown emotion. "A wife should accompany her husband when he bids it."

"Well… everyone must make sacrifices, my lord."

He winced, perhaps with the realisation of just how cold and biting his words had been, but if he had a response or an answer, she did not stay to hear it. A castle. She was bound, tied to him for something that, now, was nothing more than an opulent cage. She doubted she would ever see it as anything else.

* * *

She was already sat down, away from the feast, when she heard his footsteps. Yet she did not acknowledge him, not at first. Maybe her silence was what caused him, after he had settled down beside her, to speak.

"A pleasant feast," he said. The attempt at conversation was stilted and almost laughable.

"I was told it was a tradition," she said and tucked her hair behind her ear, "to hold a feast in the town—"

"To celebrate the arrival of a new bride." He nodded once, rolling the goblet he held between his fingers. "Yes."

She doubted they would celebrate if they knew the reason behind their lord's marriage.

"My words—" He swallowed back the rest of his drink. His tone was sharp with its restraint. "I offended you."

It wasn't an apology. Nothing more than an observation.

She sighed, locking her fingers together as she looked out at the feast. "I'm your wife, my lord." Musicians, their faces lit up by the orange glow of the firelight, laughed with one another, preparing themselves for the dancing. She directed a smile towards her husband. "It's not in my duty to be offended, is it?"

He nodded. "But as a friend?"

She dropped her gaze, picking at the silvery brocade of her skirts, bronzed in this particular light. "Then I would say – yes – you did hurt me."

"Then I'm sorry."

She just about stopped herself from snapping her head up and staring at him as if he were some kind of wild beast. Instead she remained with her head bowed and her fingers picking at her skirts. Seemed then, that he was not a contradictory man after all. Complex, and often surprising, but not contradictory. She did not have enough restraint within her to stop her smile, the sensation of relief washing over her.

The slow, gentle lilt of a lullaby began. Her husband stood, and stepped towards her. A hand covered her shoulder, his thumb tracing against her collarbone and he bent down to kiss at her cheek. Her eyelids fluttered closed, the way in which he lingered against her skin (his mouth inches from her own) soon implanting itself into her memory. He straightened up, and held out his hand.

"Dance with me."

It was neither a command, nor an invitation, but it was an offer; and not one made in an attempt to ease the tension of a situation. It was one that was made between companions. She took it with silent grace and, as he placed his hand on her waist and they slowly turned with one another, letting the music guide their feet, it became clear to her. While they may not have been able to be husband and wife, they could be friends.


	2. Two Years Later

**Author's Note:** _Okay, this took longer than I thought it would. Thank you to everyone who has read this story, followed, reviewed and favourited. And of course, feel free to comment, leave kudos or bookmark if you haven't already! Now, let's collectively hope this lives up to the delay. I feel oddly nervous. Oh well. Enjoy!_

* * *

Autumn was a harsh, unpredictable season. Leaves unfurled from their branches, crisp and dry and fading fast, with the hopeful buds that would bloom in spring were their replacement. The winds whistled, rattling windows and whipping up storms. Some days Molly felt she could measure her life in the droplets of rain that pattered against the windows of her home, the sky above grey and unyielding. Yet after two years of seasons had passed by her eyes, she had gradually begun to believe herself happy. As she began to know the town, and the people, better the name "Lady Holmes" grew to come naturally to her.

Much to the strife of her husband, she attended church often. Though Father Lestrade was loyal to the Holmes family and visited their home often and consulted with her husband on varying matters, her husband still preferred the certainty of the facts found in his books, rather than the faith of prayer.

As such, their Sundays were separate affairs. Most times, her husband would join her in the morning, break fast with her before he went off to sit in his library. She, by contrast, would spend much of the morning in the town, attending church and speaking a little with Father Lestrade before she would make a visit to Mary Watson. Living on the opposite side of the town and the new wife of Lord Watson, her low birth had caused some mutterings of a scandal among his sect. His appointment by her husband as the town's physician only served to fuel the fire, but the newly wedded couple had been warmly welcomed by Molly and her husband nonetheless. The rumours had died down soon afterwards and Molly spent a good length of hours talking with Mary at her fireside. Often it was early evening when Molly made her eventual return to the house.

* * *

The afternoon sun had faded into orange by the time Molly left the borders of the town. The church service was long that day, all of the townspeople in attendance. Given the upcoming season, it was not a surprise. The onset of summer and the onset of harvest often meant a few more praying for good weather and the health of their workers. At the end of the service Molly departed and tugged at the reins of her horse. Holding onto her skirts with one hand, she began the walk down into the town. Her horse was old now. So many rides into town along with calls for help and assistance from the townspeople had exhausted the mare, made her weak. She could barely manage more than two miles at speed before she would tire. Often her husband demanded Molly use one of the younger horses they had in the stables. On one occasion, he had said with some amusement that they could only see so much of the paddock. Still, Molly preferred the old mare. She had, after all, proved a good companion to her, even if she was thinner than before and her mane was greying.

On her way back, she stopped off at the market and made sure to procure some meats and fish for that evening's supper. It was more of a servant's role, the buying of food for the home, but Molly tended to ignore the surprise that accompanied her appearances at the markets (even after two years of her doing so). She was the lady of the house; she could not simply sit back and give orders. It was not in her nature. When she was small, her father had instilled it within her, the instinct to help others, whether they were of a higher, lower or equal position than her own. And as her father grew older, he fell into relying more and more heavily on his only daughter. His second wife had entered the household on Molly's sixteenth birthday, full of charm and grace and eagerness, but by that time, Molly had known the full run and routine of their house. Though she had attempted to teach it, her stepmother, the same age as her father, was not a country dweller by nature. She tried with effort to learn, but she eventually had acquiesced and had allowed Molly to take back her duties.

When all the necessary food was procured (she had given into temptation and bought some oats for her mare), she continued her walk towards the house. Approaching the house, she had to pause to give her mare rest and so she sat among the dry grass. The sun had sunk further into the sky on her journey, and a ribbon of orange now burned across the tops of the trees, the clouds above washed with purple and blue. A blonde-haired figure caught Molly's attention, and she recognised him almost immediately. Lord Watson wore a tunic of green and black trousers, his brown boots worn somewhat at the toe. He rode from the house at the speed of a light trot, but he came to a stop when he witnessed Molly. Dismounting, he greeted her with good cheer.

"You went into town I see," he noted, nodding towards her basket.

"Yes. How is Mary?"

John tucked back a smile, and Molly knew the news was good.

"She's – well – she's with child. I didn't tell Sherlock as he's never really been interested in that sort of thing, but no doubt he's figured it out already – you know what he's like."

She tucked her basket further back against her elbow and gripped at the reins of her mare. They had been married for just over a year. "That's wonderful. I'll have to visit you and Mary soon then – give my official congratulations."

"And unofficially?" he asked, with brightness in his eyes. Molly laughed.

"Freely given," she said happily. She gave a single small curtsey. "Good afternoon to you, Lord Watson."

Pulling gently at the reins of her mare, she steered the horse down the pathway, towards the house.

* * *

She entered the house via the servant's entrance and called for a servant. A plump girl of only 15 answered her, with red curls and flecks of flour on her cheek. She pressed the basket into her hands.

"For supper tonight – inform the cook, and take my horse back to the stables. She will need water and a brush."

The girl smiled and gave a small curtsey. "Of course ma'am," she said quickly before she scuttled off. Pleased, Molly brushed back her hair and smoothed down her skirts. Straightening up, she headed up the stairs and into the main hallway. There, she took a right and headed up another, smaller, flight of steps and down a narrower corridor.

The doors to the library were, as they often were, open wide. Her husband's voice sounded out from the room, and Molly smiled. He was talking to the dog, bidding him to remain silent, even though the creature had barely made a sound. He must've been locked away in the depths of his mind, as was his way. She did not know what he found within there, but it must have been some solace of some kind, for whenever he woke from the trance-like state he fell into and noticed her there, quietly reading, he never had an unkind word to say. She supposed that was the benefit of his friendship. There was an air of comfort; of familiarity.

She knocked, but he did not answer. She announced herself, and gently called his name. Still no answer came from him. One look at him explained his odd mood. He was sat in his chair, as usual, but he had in his hand a letter and he stared unendingly at it as if he were not reading it at all.

Suddenly he sat forward, his fingers moving rapidly over the parchment as he folded the letter closed. She only realised she had been moving forward, glancing over his shoulder at the letter in question, when he spoke.

"Do you sneak up on every one of your friends?" She froze. She held her hands together in front of her, head lowered.

"I'm sorry, my lord. I see you are busy." Turning, she departed. The dog scampered after her, giving a short bark when she shut the library doors. She paused and let out a long, deep breath.

There it had been. A signature she had forgotten all about, but had thrown her straight back into the beginning days of her marriage, the days when she didn't know her purpose or what her new husband really wanted from her. _The Woman._ The dog lightly snatched at the material of her skirts and her hand fell to its head, fingers stroking through long fur and her mind utterly elsewhere.

* * *

"My lord?" He replied to her address with a grunt and continued to eat. Her own plate remained untouched. She swallowed. "I don't know if you remember but – about two years ago – you received a letter."

At that, he looked up. So he did remember. That knowledge made her braver, and she cleared her throat.

"You threw it into the fire."

His face was impassive, but his eyes narrowed briefly. "I did."

"Please bear in mind I'm asking as a friend," she said and the corner of his mouth lifted. "What was in that letter?"

"A farewell," was his eventual answer. He made to say nothing more. Yet the words, his words, stayed with her. They stayed with her, and they played on her mind, meanings and ideas and possibilities uselessly sticking there and achieving nothing. They stayed with her until that night, when she, in her robes and sat before her mirror, looked to her maid.

"I want you to try and procure one of the letters my husband receives. Can you do that?"

Her maid continued to gently brush out her hair and weave it into a loose plait. She smiled at her mistress.

"Of course, milady."

* * *

Time rolled on, and the blooms of spring gave way to the heat of summer. With summer came the movement of the household. The castle, last seen by Molly on a cold winter's morning, seemed to glow in the yellow sunlight as she rode up the hill towards it with her husband behind her. They made their way down into the valley by a winding gravel path which was lined by a thick copse of trees. Mrs Hudson stood at the drawbridge of the castle, and she greeted them with a pleasant smile, escorting them through the gate and across the courtyard.

Large in size, the castle's courtyard was nothing really like Molly had ever seen before. Gardens had been what she had grown up in, what she had been charged to keep well and ordered. The courtyard, especially here, was a place of work, all stone and mortar with guards on either side of the portcullis. On one side, horses were brushed down by fresh-faced stable boys and on the other, blacksmiths forged out horseshoes and weapons, the acrid smell of the smith's fires filling the air. The castle was the centrepiece, a colossus of stone that loomed large, casting shadows over the yard.

The doors opening for them as they made their way up the steps, Mrs Hudson escorted them inside. Sherlock did not stop as Molly did, and she wasn't surprised. He had grown up here, he had no reason to stop and stare and marvel at the high ceilings and the stretched stone steps. With a short whistle to the dog, her husband jogged up the stairs two at a time and departed. Molly inched forwards as the doors closed behind her. She turned towards Mrs Hudson.

"Do you have a garden here?"

"We've got one herb garden – that's by the kitchens. The grounds themselves are very plain. Orders of the master." She spoke the words with a rather apologetic tone. Molly appreciated the effort.

"That will be fine." She had hoped, minutely, for a walled garden or some such thing, but it was little matter. An herb garden was good enough. "Better than fine, actually."

"You won't need to do as much running of the house," Mrs Hudson continued, her relief clear. "But I can still give you a tour, if you feel you need one."

"Oh I think I do," Molly said with a laugh that echoed, glancing up at the tall arched ceiling. Mrs Hudson, delighted with her answer, beamed a smile and led Molly onwards, up the steps and to the left.

"This is the west wing," Mrs Hudson explained as they walked down the corridor. Sunlight poured in through the windows, and Molly risked a peek outside. The grounds, just as had been claimed, were plain. Nothing but an expanse of green. She turned her attention back to Mrs Hudson. "This is where the family stays – guests stay in the east wing. There are ten bedchambers in all, five in each wing. The breakfast room, the dining room and the parlour room are all built away from the two wings, at the front of the castle. I'll show you them in a minute. This here is the library – the old master, my lord's father, used it frequently when he was alive, he and his wife."

"You know a lot about this place," Molly remarked and she stepped inside the library. It was a medium-sized room, with walls of books and a fireplace with two chairs, antiques but obviously well-maintained. Mrs Hudson made a low noise at the back of her throat and nodded once.

"Hm, yes – when I first came to work here, the family used to live here all year round. It was only when the old master couldn't take the cold so well that the manor house was bought. Your husband was only small when I met him. I practically raised the boy, actually."

"I wonder if she's done a good job then." Both Mrs Hudson and Molly turned to find Sherlock standing in the corridor, a smile on his lips. (Perhaps he had heard Mrs Hudson's genial chatter.) He entered the library, tilting his head towards his wife.

"Do you believe she's done her duty, my lady?"

There was a teasing, a playful lilt to his question that she found she couldn't help but reciprocate. She smiled wider.

"I don't quite know just yet, my lord."

"Hm." He glanced towards the housekeeper. "Mrs Hudson, is everything prepared for dinner? You remember my brother is attending."

"Oh yes, my lord, of course. I'll check on the preparations now." Mrs Hudson, with a short curtsey to the pair of them, left the room. Molly's brow creased.

"Your brother?" His brother, _here._ She held herself, her hand hovering against the back of her neck. She bit at her bottom lip, feeling her nails scratch against the back of her neck. A nervous habit, one that she rarely allowed to be seen. It was unladylike, so her governess had informed her when she'd seen her young charge itching at her nape during lessons. Her husband, it appeared, couldn't care at all about any unladylike behaviour. That was little surprise. After all, he hadn't married her for her manners. She sighed and let her hand fall away from her neck and lifted her eyes up towards his.

"Mycroft's returning from a trip abroad," her husband explained. His gaze flitted briefly over her dress. "You'll be expected to greet him when he arrives."

"When – when did you receive notice of his return?"

He paused. "A few days ago."

With that knowledge, he left her.

* * *

She had grown used to the lords and ladies of her youth, the well-perfumed nobles that often visited her father who would arrive at their house with their flags flying in a display of pomp and circumstance, oft followed by a trail of servants and pages, ready to attend to their masters. Being such a young girl, she had found joy in running after them as they walked through the halls of her father's house, her fingers trailing through the silk fabrics that made up the ladies' skirts. In growing older, she had learned to stand and receive her father's guests with grace and a smile, not the giddiness of childhood. It was with that learned grace that she received Mycroft Holmes that evening.

He arrived on horseback, his garments a dark shade of blue and his cloak lined with the finest fur. Indeed, there was no opulence at all. No servants accompanied him, or any pages. He bore neither coat of arms, nor livery and waved no flags. His only relinquishment to etiquette was a detailed stitching of his coat of arms on the right-sided breast of his tunic, the stitch bronze-coloured and hard to see against the dark blue. No announcement made, no introduction given. The greeting Sherlock gave to his brother was with the same coldness she had been witness to two years before. The both of them shared a necessary but short exchange before Sherlock turned and gestured towards her. Holding her skirts, she bowed her head and curtsied and smiled, just as she was meant. One more necessary exchange of conversation was endured by the three before Molly took her husband's arm and with Mycroft walking along behind them, walked back into the castle.

Dinner was splendid, an array of meats and fish and perhaps an attempt by her husband to one-up his brother (that, of course, was speculation on her part). Mycroft regarded the display with an indifferent air, just as he seemed to regard everything; including her. He was halfway through his supper when he decided it was time to start a conversation.

"I visited John Watson on my journey back." His fingers traced around the rim of his goblet. "I learned of his marriage to Mary Morstan. Surprising, a knight marrying a woman of such low birth."

Molly swallowed back the bite of her meat and eyed her husband cautiously. He did not take the bait.

"Shouldn't you be referring to the man as 'Sir'?"

"I also noted something else." Mycroft, also refusing to take the bait presented to him, glanced towards a painting on the wall. Old and faded, it depicted a knight on one knee and a lady bending down with her fingers poised against his chin and a red rose in her hand. The rose was faded most. "Lady Watson is now pregnant. Remarkable – how quickly it happened."

Molly paused, avoiding Mycroft's eye. Despite two years of relative contentment, it would've been a lie to admit herself untroubled by the deception of her failure. Every day, she had to endure side glances from gossiping servants and rumours from the townspeople. Some said she had lost one child already, and still secretly grieved for it. Some said she was barren. None spoke the truth. And while she could not be fully aware of the meaning or intent behind Mycroft's comment—idle as it was—she would be damned before she would engage him.

She set down her cutlery, and stood. Her husband's gaze followed her movements.

"Excuse me," she said, her tone tight, "I'm – not as hungry as I believed. Goodnight, sirs."

The doors to the dining room closed behind her, and her skirts fluttered around her feet as she began to hurry down the corridor.

* * *

A knock came at the door. She lifted her head.

"Come in." The door opened at her reply, and her maid slipped inside. Brown eyes bright, she carried a letter in her hands, a letter with faded ink and a torn seal. Her maid urged herself forward, and stood in front of her to offer out the letter. Molly stared at it. Small handwriting wrote out her husband's name, each letter carefully written out.

"I found this in one of his books," her maid whispered. "It was sent to him months ago."

She took the letter between her fingers and with a hesitant touch, she folded it open. Like her husband's name, every word was painstakingly chosen and written.

_I realise that this letter will come as a shock to you, as I know you previously believed me to be perished. I assure you, that it is not the case. This is no forgery, and this is no trick. I am as real and as possible as the ink I used to write this letter and these words—and as I am alive, I find myself in need of you. I shall visit you soon._

_The Woman._

"My lady?" Her maid's hand clutched at her arm as she rose to her feet, but she barely heard the call. In a daze, she drifted and slowly dropped into her chair as her eyes drank in the words in front of her. The Woman. The meaning had been muddied by suspicion before, but now it was crystal clear. This woman, whoever she was, whatever she was to her husband, wanted him.

She had once believed her heart turned to stone. The ache that found its way, and settled against her core, told her differently. The feel of her maid's fingers, wrapped around her wrists, made her look up.

"End this," her maid implored her. She was crouched in front of her, eyes wide. "Stop this unhappiness. You were married to your husband in the eyes of God. You deserve more than friendship."

Molly lowered her head.

"Exactly when was this sent to him?" she asked. Her eyes ran over the page, searching for any kind of date. "How many months ago?"

"I don't know—" her maid replied, and Molly repeated her question. Her maid found no other answer for her. Molly swallowed. Folding the letter closed, she pressed it into her maid's palm. "Take this—" Her maid spoke out with confusion, insistent that things weren't what they seemed, but Molly shook her head and continued. "Put it back exactly where you found it. Do not let my husband see you. Go."

Her maid—quietening against the determination of her mistress—left without another protest.

* * *

The next day, Molly woke to sounds of voices that streamed and overlapped over one another in a general hubbub. Rising from the bed and pulling on her robe, she moved towards the door. Mrs Hudson's voice now joined in the fray, calling out urgent commands and instructions and harried calls for people not to drop things or to handle things with care.

Molly opened the door and peeked out to find household maids and servants and cooks and pages galore hurrying back and forth through the corridor, every last one of them supervised by Mrs Hudson, who was stood to the side. Molly called to her.

"Oh, my lady! You're awake!" Flapping her hands in an air of general fuss, Mrs Hudson rushed over and ushered Molly back. "But quick, get inside your chamber – the servants are hard at work, come now, come—"

"What's going on?" Molly asked as she stepped back into the bedchamber and sat in her chair, her robe falling back to her sides. Mrs Hudson smiled, holding the door latch.

"We are to receive a guest, all the way from the royal court!" she said brightly, though she could not quite catch Molly's eye. "I do not know who it is exactly, but my lord has ordered this place to be spotless by the time they arrive."

Molly glossed over the housekeeper's lie, and only nodded and waved a hand to dismiss her.

"Thank you Mrs Hudson. That's all I needed to know."

* * *

She rubbed the stalk of rosemary between her palms and bent her head a little, breathing in the bittersweet scent with a wide smile. Perfect. Tucking her hair back against her ear, the sun warm on her back, she knelt down and began to pick. As she'd later managed to learn from Mrs Hudson, her guest's arrival wasn't to take place until the late afternoon, so she'd made her way down to the kitchen, asked for an herb basket and ventured outside towards the herb garden.

In all the excitement of two important visitors in such a short space of time, she hadn't had a chance to properly acquaint herself with the plants that populated the place. Her father's cook had never felt the need to teach Molly about the herbs that she grew at the bottom of their garden. She'd claimed it was "servant's knowledge", and not knowledge that should've belonged to a well-born lady. Molly laughed at the memory. _Servant's knowledge indeed._ Taking it upon herself to learn, she'd read books, and she irritated the cook beyond belief with her habit of invading the herb garden and snapping off a stalk or two that she could take back to the house and compare to the drawings in her books. She was not a quick reader, but she was a fast learner. It took her only five months to learn every herb in that patch of garden, to know its scent and its look. This garden though, contained far more herbs than she'd ever been privy to. Molly paused and glanced out at the sight in front of her. _Sooner or later_, she mused with a soft sigh, _I shall have to return to my books_.

"You could easily get a servant to do that for you."

Molly smiled. Teasing her, again. She snapped off another stalk and turned to drop it into the basket. Above her, her husband shifted a little and cleared his throat.

"I was teasing."

She glanced up behind her, her hand hovering over the herb basket. "I knew."

With the sunlight behind him, his features were shrouded in shadow, but she still saw it. His smile. A gentle, small smile that she returned. She still remembered when he had begun to look at her in that way. Two years ago, the morning after the feast held in their honour. That had been the first time they had danced. The first and, so far, the last. She still held that memory tight in her mind. The dance had begun at a gradual pace; a lilting, soft tune had played as they circled one another, his hand on her waist and her hand on his shoulder. They turned and turned, others joining their lord and their lady in the dance. Mead fuelled the merriment, and the softness of the tune evolved into something jovial and bright. Hands clapped (faster, faster, _faster_) and feet stomped as he held her tighter and they began to dance in time, her skirts twirling and their feet moving as they stamped and jumped and spun and danced. And in the morning, she had come down to the hall to find him already there and giving her that same smile as he poured her a cup of wine as they broke their fast together with bread and meat. Even two years later, she could still hear his throaty laughter mixed in with hers.

Getting to her feet, she picked up and tucked the herb basket against her elbow and tilted her head back, looking up at the sky. The clouds had darkened quickly, leaving the sky an overcast grey. Her husband tilted an eyebrow.

"It isn't going to rain – if that's what you're thinking."

Deep thunder rolled in the sky and droplets of rain began to spatter against their skin. Molly shrieked a laugh and covered her head with her hands, letting the herb basket swing against the crook of her elbow. Sherlock stepped forward.

"With me!" he called over the driving rain, and he took hold of her hand. Together they ran from the garden and down the narrow grassy path, mud hitting at her hem and his cloak swaying, towards the kitchen. Lightning cracked in the sky, and another surge of rain tipped down upon them. His hand pressed against her lower back, steering her towards the door to the kitchen. Reaching the door to the kitchens, she stood off to the side, with her arms tightly crossed over her chest and her teeth chattering, as her husband banged his palm against the door.

"Open this door!" His demand was swift, but no-one came. He tried again, rain spitting from his bottom lip as he shouted the order again and again. Droplets of rain raced down his cheeks.

Molly tilted her head, her brow creasing into a frown._ Stop this unhappiness. You deserve more than friendship. _The words, spoken by her maid, a woman who had grown with her as she had grown, festered inside her mind as she watched him. She reached forward. She cupped at his cheek. His order faded and he looked towards her. His tongue darted out against his bottom lip, his eyes roaming her face. He said her name in a whisper, the lilt of a question behind it. Perhaps her expression was unreadable to him—it was a boon. She took a breath, closed her eyes and pressed her mouth to his. His face slipped from her fingers and he jerked away from her. His face was stiff.

He turned away from her. He flinched when she reached out to touch him, and did not reply when she addressed him but raised his fist and banged against the door, demanding for an answer, a greeting, from anyone at all. Molly turned her head away. For a moment, the warmth of his mouth (warmth which before had only ever been a promise, a thought that lingered in the back of her mind) had become a memory.

The kitchen door finally swung open. A small, lithe maid stood before them. Seeing the mistress and the master of the castle soaked to the bone, her mouth grew slack, but her husband ignored the girl's address of both of them as he steered his wife into the heat of the kitchen, away from the driving rain. A wooden stool stood in front of the hearth. He sat her down upon it. Only then did he look to the servant who had greeted them.

"Take these," he wrenched the basket from Molly's frozen fingers, "fetch them to the cook. And your mistress is cold. Fetch her something to drink."

His footsteps, flying up the kitchen stairs, echoed and she watched his retreating form. A shiver caught at her and her voice trembled, her teeth chattering, as she thanked the servant who pressed a cup into her hands. She took a sip. Spiced wine slipped down her throat, warming her. At the top of the stairs, she heard approaching footsteps. She continued to drink, her eyes closed.

She opened her eyes when she felt the heavy velvet fabric of a cloak fall onto her shoulders. His arm drew over her back and pulled the heavy, warm fabric of his cloak over her narrow-framed shoulders. Taking a breath, she raised her head.

His hair was damp, curls sticking to the pale skin of his neck. His features were stony, eyebrows pulled together into a frown. His pupils almost blown black. His mouth, parted. Breathing, slow.

"My lord – my lady."

Molly turned her head, her husband following her action. Mrs Hudson stood at the top of the stairs. Rain continued to thud onto the windows. Sherlock still did not let go of his cloak. Mrs Hudson gave a delicate clearing of her throat and picked up her skirts, heading down the stairs and coming to a stop before them.

"Lady Irene Adler has arrived," she announced. Her husband's fingers pulled away from his cloak as he let it settle against Molly's body.

"Very good, Mrs Hudson." Her words did not only surprise herself, but her husband and the housekeeper as well. Molly stood and let the material of the cloak from her shoulders, catching it easily between her fingers. She pressed the cloak into her husband's hands. "Make sure Miss Adler is comfortable while I make myself ready to receive our guest."

Mrs Hudson looked down as she approached her. "But, my lady—"

Molly paused at the top of the stairs. She didn't look to her husband.

"Make sure Miss Adler is comfortable," she repeated firmly. "And please send my maid to my chambers – tell her to prepare my red brocade."

Holding her skirts she departed the kitchens and made her way up the second flight of stairs towards the main castle.

* * *

"I must congratulate you, Lady Holmes." Irene's words were genial, and she smiled as she sliced at the food in front of her and continued to eat. Every movement she made—whether it were a turn of the head or even a simple step forwards—was poised and elegant, choreographed to the letter.

"Congratulate me?" Molly asked hesitantly.

"Yes. For having employed such marvellous cooks."

Molly swallowed a blush, and remained looking at her new guest. "That congratulations should go to my husband," she replied softly. "He was the one to employ them."

Irene, eyebrows tilting upwards, shrugged at Molly's answer and took up her wine, sipping from it. Leaning back in her chair, her eyes flickered over Molly's form.

"You are a wife now," she said. Her eyes glinted with mischief. "You must learn to take credit for all of your husband's decisions."

Molly felt the corners of her mouth rise with a smile, a smile which only increased when she glanced upon her brother-in-law and saw him roll his eyes.

"You've visited this estate for a reason, Miss Adler," Mycroft said irritably, setting down his knife and fork and glaring at the woman. "It would be better for all if you enlightened us on it."

Irene did not flinch, cower nor look away. Calmly, she set down her wine and settled her hands in her lap. The light of the fire, churning within the grate, reflected off her skin and in her eyes.

"As the secret of my being alive is out, I'm in need of a possession." As she spoke, her gaze slid towards Sherlock, and her smile grew a little. "A book, stolen by your brother when we last met."

Molly looked towards her husband. He did not look to Irene when he spoke. "I assume your need isn't sentimental."

Her fingers traced against the silver of the cutlery and she shrugged. "I admit my motives are mostly political, yes."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and nodded in a single, slow gesture accompanied by a sigh. He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I don't have it. Here at the estate. Your journey has been wasted, apparently."

Irene remained silent at this announcement, and rose to her feet. Molly sucked in a breath. Her smile gently slipped from her mouth. Irene Adler was elegant, she was poised, but that was all superficial; manners learned from childhood like every lady at court. It served to hide a stone-like nature, one well-constructed, well-fortified. She wasn't like the wealth of Molly's youth, all perfumes and silks and gaiety. She was a fortress, strong and vigilant and hard to destroy.

"That is a shame," Irene said, looking to the four of them. Her eyes lingered on Molly. "I suppose I'll just have to extend my stay."

Molly saw her husband aim a cold smile in Irene's direction.

"Then you will be staying for a long time indeed – if my brother has his way."

Irene laughed shortly and mirthlessly, turning her head away from Molly. "And since when did you allow your brother to dictate your actions, Lord Holmes?"

* * *

Lazy tendrils of steam floated from the steel bath, the water still and tranquil. Adorned in her robe, Molly sat in front of the mirror and her hair tumbled out over her shoulders, freed from its trappings of veil and behind her, her maid brushed at it, humming softly. Molly spoke little. The events of the dinner were still in her thoughts. Such a cold familiarity had been shared between Miss Adler and her husband, something that did not come from acquaintances. She had mentioned a book also, a seemingly innocuous item which had proved to bring such discomfort to both her husband and her brother-in-law. It had to contain secrets of some kind, secrets neither of them wished released into what they decided to be the wrong hands. Molly did not know which aspect of the situation puzzled her more.

A knock came, muffled, through the door of the bath chamber. Setting down the brush, her maid departed. Molly followed her out, fiddling at a tightly woven braid. Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway, her features and her voice low as she talked.

"Do you need her help at all?" Molly asked, nodding briefly towards her maid. She had overseen the preparations of the ball that morning and had seen how harried it had made the housekeeper. Mrs Hudson nodded, an apology already in her expression, but Molly smiled.

"It's alright. I can manage," she said gently steering both her maid and Mrs Hudson from the room. She sat on the edge of her bed as the door closed. Her fingers began to deftly weave out the threads of her hair from the braid, the strands fluttering over her fingers.

* * *

So lost in her task was she, that it seemed an age had passed when there came a knock on the door. Her maid, returned from her duties no doubt.

"Come in," she called, but she froze when the door opened and her husband stepped inside.

His reaction to her presence was immediate. He froze, his mouth growing slightly slack, his fingers grasping at the door handle. His eyes swept over her form and he cleared his throat, turning.

"I interrupted you—"

"No!" She rose quickly, and he turned his head. His grip on the door loosened. Molly swallowed and fiddled with the ends of her hair. Religion and God dictated she hide it, and it struck her that he had never seen her like this. He had always seen her with her hair woven into one single thick braid, or covered by a veil. Her cheeks flushed pink and she looked to her husband.

"My lord. What do you need?"

"I merely—" he swallowed. "It was about the ball tonight. Wished to speak to you about the ball. If you want, I could – escort you."

She was tempted to remind him it was tradition for a lord and a lady to walk into a ball together. "I would like that very much," she said with a smile. "To go with you. As a friend."

He made a sound, something almost akin to a laugh, and she widened her smile. It grew slack when she saw him reach forward towards her. Her heart lifted, just a little, as his fingers slid against hers. She looked to him. In the evening's light, he always appeared different to her. In the day, he was harsh, cold, lord of his estates. When the sun fell below the horizon, and the sky turned to blue, he changed not into something ethereal or from another world, but into something more resembling the man she had seen on top of a hill two years ago, flinching at the sound of his own cutting words thrown back at him. The man who had danced with her.

Her lips parted to speak. He bent down and kissed her. His mouth was gentle, sending sparks through her body, warming her in a way no spiced wine could ever have done. She felt the echoes of rain on her cheeks and their embrace deepened, his fingers tangling into her hair and her fingers on his shirt. Up they travelled towards his face and his neck and she almost felt as if she could wrap all of her around him, keep him close after two years of friendship. But friendship was no consolation to love, to this. Friendship was a different creature. They moved together, stumbled backwards. Mumbled words slipped in against the sounds of their kiss. She laughed, smiling as she fell back against the bed.

His eyes dimmed, quite suddenly, and Molly watched him pause, look away, sigh and pull back. Her heart sank. The moment, like a breadth of wind on a close summer's day, had faded. Molly felt her head shake. _No_, she thought, sitting up. _No._ It could not go, not just like that. Her hand held his, and she lay back, slowly pulling him towards her. His breathing seemed to slow, and he stared. His eyes, that always familiar and always shocking shade of blue, stared at her.

Her husband reached forward, and his mouth touched at the expanse of her neck, above her collarbone. He lifted his head, looking at her, and her breath went still. One hand settled against her waist. The other against her cheek. Her husband's thumb traced the line of her jaw, the hollow of her cheek, the edges of her mouth, over and over. Every touch was more gentle than his last. As if he was fading. A stray lock of her hair fell against his fingers. His gaze shifted, and his hand moved. His touch was soft against her ear, locking the strand back in place.

"I will meet you out – outside the main hall." He spoke softly, shakily. The door shut behind him. Molly remained laid on the bed. She felt the heavy woollen fabric between her fingers and closed her eyes. _Cry_, she told her herself. She could cry, she should cry, and oh god, but she wanted to cry. She gripped tighter at the bedsheets, squeezed her eyes shut.

"My lady?" She snapped her eyes open and let out a breath. Adjusting herself, she sat up and turned her head towards the door and the voice of her maid.

"Come in," she called. Her maid stepped inside. The old metal of the door latch creaked, and her maid bit at her lip.

"Forgive me my lady, if this is pertinent, but I saw—"

Molly rose to her feet. "Have you prepared my garments for tonight?"

Her voice was colder than she intended. She tried a smile.

"Yes, my lady," her maid answered with a curtsey. "I shall fetch them for you now."

* * *

It was the second dance they had spent together, and they barely spent a moment with one another for the entirety of it. It was an old dance, one that Molly's nurse had taught to her when she had been a little girl and had needed her father's feet to make her way around the floor. Each of the nobles invited a fair lady to the floor to signal the beginning of the dance, her nurse explained, with the hosting noble and his wife taking the lead. A gesture to the band started the music. One gentle bow from the nobles and one brief curtsey from the ladies then preceded the dance, her nurse said. She had always taken pleasure in talk of festivities and dancing. _Perhaps if she had been allowed to partake in the dancing, she would not have been so fond of it._ The thought made Molly smile as she was lifted into the air by an elderly, rather rotund lord. She continued on to the next partner. Two lines had compromised the beginning of the dance, each pairing making their way down the aisle. After that, the dancers moved off and formed into a large circle, palms pressed to one another's and smiles exchanged as they bowed their heads to each of their fellow dancers. The nobles and their ladies stepped in perfect time to the music, always moving and never pausing.

Three partners it took before she saw her husband again. He wore the look of a lord, and he said nothing to her as she raised her palm and held it to his. She turned her head away, glancing out into the crowd.

"Lady Adler remains here," she said quietly. The book, and all it held, still remained in her thoughts. Her husband's face grew cold at the mention of Irene's name.

"And she will continue to," he answered. They walked side by side now, his fingers tucked over hers. Sherlock turned back towards her. "Do you dislike her?"

"No," Molly said honestly. "Though I am confused. All she asks for is a book. Surely it should be given to her."

Her husband let out a breath. "It would require me, and my brother, to sacrifice too much."

The relinquishment of a book. Too much of a sacrifice. Molly frowned. She felt her husband's arm wind around her waist and he lifted her into the air, turning and setting her down onto the stone floor, but she could not look at him. She came to a pause. "What about what I had to sacrifice?" she asked softly. _Does that mean nothing to him?_

He scoffed, providing the answer.

"All you had to do was move out of a small manor house and into a castle." His words were spiteful. "Some women might consider that an achievement."

Her look darkened. "An achievement? Me having to leave my home, my family and all I knew to marry a man who barely acknowledges me? And yet you call the giving of a book a sacrifice."

The music came to a bright stop, and the guests clapped as the dancers graciously bowed. At her words, her husband stopped. His features flickered, his eyebrows quirking upwards as his lips thinned. Raising himself up to his full height, he squared his shoulders. Molly held his gaze. He was the one to break it. He swept past her, into the crowd. Molly swallowed, and took a breath. She turned back towards the dancers, smiled a wide smile, and joined in with the applause.

* * *

She held her hands together in front of her and walked quickly down the corridor. The light from the braziers flashed past her. The ball had continued for a good hour or two, the music bright and the dances lively, but the change in mood could not be ignored. Molly had danced one or two dances after the first dance, before she had retired to the high table. She engaged in conversation with many lords and ladies and knights, but they were conversations of little depth and little time. Irene had danced a turn with a fair few lords and conversed with even more ladies. In the midst of her dance with her husband, Molly had seen her within the guests, gazing upon the pair of them. She'd been stood near to the musicians, an eager noble on her side requesting a dance with her. A wave of her hand and a smile had put him on his way. Mycroft, the honoured guest, had spent little time involving himself in the occasion. He spent his time sat at the high table with his eyes on the guests, his superior air ever present. When he had deigned to join the dancing, he had danced two rounds with one lady before bowing to her once and returning back to the main table.

Her husband had not seen fit to return to the ball. Angered, Molly had not wondered where he had gone. He had made it clear he held little regard for her. She lifted the latch of her bedchamber door and stepped through. A page, small and thin with a hooked nose, was in the room. On the bed, a small wooden trunk sat open. The page moved silently, retrieving her husband's garments and folding them before he set them into the trunk. She closed the door behind her. He looked up on her entrance, and addressed her with a single bow. Behind her, the door opened and she turned. Sherlock stood in the doorway.

"I'm going hunting tomorrow, early." He did not look at her when he stepped forward. His expression was stony. "I will sleep in another set of chambers. You won't be disturbed."

Molly glanced behind her. The page, head bowed, locked the trunk closed and made to leave. She looked back to her husband. _He has no worries about me_, she thought. _He just doesn't want to be near me._

"And earlier?" Her tone was cold, and her meaning clear. "What about that?"

The page, passing them, slowed. Sherlock shifted his glare towards him.

"I don't pay you to eavesdrop," he snapped, jerking his head towards the door. The page gave a nod, a mumbled apology, and left. The door closed in his wake.

A short sigh came from Sherlock, his shoulders sinking with the weight of it, and he turned back towards her.

"Earlier," his voice was stiff, "was not a part of our arrangement."

_If not a part of the arrangement, then what was it?_ He left before the question could pass her lips. She stared at the dark oak wood of the door, her eyelids closed and her forehead pressed against it. Her fingers traced over the metal of the latch. She breathed, a long and drawn out breath. It had never been their arrangement. It had been an arrangement he had bestowed upon them that she had accepted without question. Her hand fell away from the latch. She touched at her lips. They tingled with the sensation of another touch. She pressed her palm against the wood of the door. It was warm, warmed by the fire burning in the grate. And she remembered it again. Finally, her tears came.

* * *

The knock on the door came as a surprise to both her and her maid. Her maid, the pot in her hands, turned away from the window. She glanced towards her mistress. Sitting on the bed, Molly stared at the door. Looking to her maid, she gave a nod.

"Answer it," she ordered. Her maid obeyed and moved towards the door. A smile greeted them both, and the visitor dismissed Molly's maid with a quietly spoken command. The door closed and she turned to face Molly, reaching up and running her fingers through her dark hair. She wore it in the fashion of the Italian court, free and flowing. It earned either dark looks or tentative admiration from lords and ladies alike in this part of the world, but Irene Adler showed no yearning for full approval from either of those parties. After all, what need did she have for them? She was wealthy, welcomed in all the royal courts of Europe. The antics and attitudes of country nobles were nothing. Molly stood at her entrance. Irene gave her one look and gathered up her sleeves, folding her arms across her waist. She approached the bed.

"I suppose a lot of mystery has preceded my arrival."

Molly carefully eyed Irene. "Yes."

"Then I also suppose it's my duty to set the record straight." Her voice was silken and her eyes calm and inviting. She sat on the edge of the bed, arranging her hands carefully upon her lap, one over the other. She sat up straight, held her head just right. "I am a courtesan. I know Lord Holmes from when I got – embroiled in a situation. The royal guards didn't want the situation made public, and felt that to consult someone privately about it was best."

She sounded like a queen, hiding the bigger truth behind a veil of selected smaller truths.

"You're a courtesan."

Irene nodded once. "That's right."

"Was my husband—?" Molly let out a breath when Irene shrugged a shoulder.

"He was. But that is inevitable, even among men as clinical as your husband."

"Do you wish to have him?"

Irene blinked at the blunt sudden question, then laughed. It was the first genuine sound Molly had encountered from her. Irene stood and moved towards Molly. She tucked a finger against Molly's chin and raised her head.

"Oh, sweet dove. You're willing to please anyone, aren't you?" She smiled, her teeth a pearly white and cupped at Molly's cheek. "Even the woman you barely know. Well, you must listen to me. What I told Mycroft on my arrival here still holds true. I do not wish for your husband – once was enough, for the both of us. And even if I did desire him, I, like so many others, cannot undo what God has done. I can however, teach you what you wish to know."

Molly pulled away from her touch. Clutching her hands together, she stood.

"No you can't. Excuse me, Lady Adler." Her voice was crisp. She moved past Irene, towards the door. Irene spoke again, as if she had not heard her.

"I saw the two of you. Dancing." Her tone was softer, more understanding. Molly turned. There was nothing of the fortress she had presented on her first night. She was merely a woman, standing and talking to another. "Even when he wasn't with you, his eyes were on you. Did you know that?"

"He was not looking at me," Molly said firmly. "He would not look at me. And we quarrelled. He made his feelings about me, about what – he made them quite clear. One look can't change that."

"One look," Irene said with a laugh, "can do more than you believe."

"What is it then? That you believe you can… _teach_ to me?"

"To put it – not so delicately, I can teach you how to have your husband. How to seduce him." Irene took a step forward, and tilted her head. "Would you like that, Molly?"

Molly swallowed a gulp. Her mouth warmed with the memory of a spark and the feel of fingers clutching desperately at her, wanting more. Her fingers curled tightly against her palm as she lifted her eyes towards Irene's. "I would."

* * *

Molly could not help but half-wonder how she had got herself into this position. The door to her bedchamber was locked, but the hubbub of the house could still be heard distantly, clearing away the remains of the festivities. She wondered what was going on out there. Was she missed? Were they missed?

"Your thoughts are wandering, Lady Holmes."

Irene's voice was patient, as if she were tutoring a young child. Molly swallowed slightly and turned her head and tried to focus on the woman in front of her. Irene's cold, blue eyes lightened as she chuckled, and she stepped forward.

"The first lesson you need to know about seduction is that it revolves around truth. And always will."

Molly frowned. "Truth?"

"There is nothing a man desires more than the truth. Some believe they get to possess you that way," Irene remarked idly, making the final approach towards the bed. A wicked smile appeared on her lips as she climbed onto the bed.

"You must tell him different," she said softly, her voice like silk as she straddled Molly's lap. "You must tell him that you have allowed him to see the real you – and that you are the one in control."

Her gaze was scrutinizing. Every movement Molly made, however insignificant she thought it to be (the twitch of her lip, the narrowing of her eyes, the twist of her head), it seemed to resonate with Irene. Her looks, her mood, even the way she spoke… With every observation about Molly that she made, every part of her would change. Irene held her chin, turning Molly's head towards her.

"You must also focus. Concentrate on him and him alone. No thoughts of revelries and no thoughts of time. Dismiss all of that – focus on him."

"Why – why must I focus on him?"

"If you think of nothing but him, he will think of nothing but you."

Molly nodded, but her breath caught as she felt Irene's hands grip against hers. She almost expected Irene to look away, but she never did. It seemed as if she already knew Molly's body—as if she had memorised it. When Irene spoke again, she slowly brought Molly's hands to her hips and softly enclosed them around her, the warmth of her skin obvious even through the layers of fabric. Her dress was made of green velvet, dark as emeralds. It was rough under Molly's palms.

"Let me guess a few things about you, Molly. Your mother died when you were young, correct? Perhaps died in childbirth?"

"Yes."

"So you were brought up by your father. And he was kind, and he was generous – but there was always something missing. You felt that you had failed him." She should have felt uncomfortable with not only the intimacy of their contact, but the intimacy of her words. It seemed that, from a mere look, Irene had gleaned all of Molly's fears, her worries and her doubt. Yet she felt safe, so safe. It was a look that threw her back two years ago, when her husband had told her it was alright to feel relief at a lie.

"Molly, you have been taught, however subliminally, since a young age that your feelings and your thoughts do not matter. That you exist only to please your lord and master with shy looks and a quiet voice." Irene leaned forward, placing her hands on the pillow, either side of Molly's head. Her eyes hardened. "I promise you; that is wrong. The act of love is an act that is shared. To love is not a duty. It is a choice, made by two people."

Molly bit at her lip. "I kissed him."

Irene made a show of failing to hear. "What?"

"I kissed him," Molly repeated, the sentiment louder. She held Irene's hips tighter. "And – he kissed me."

Irene made a low, thoughtful noise at the back of her throat. She straightened up, shaking out her hair. "Hm. And this is a problem?"

Molly lowered her gaze. It had not felt wrong, not at the time. She had only felt angry, frustrated, when he stepped back. When he (the both of them) had let the spark go.

"No."

A large smile came across Irene's features. "There. Then it is not an indiscretion, nor is it a mistake. Pursuing one's own pleasure is never either of those things."

"Pursuing one's own pleasure…?" Molly echoed. She shook her head. "I just kissed him."

"People have a misconception about pleasure," Irene explained. "They think it can be found in drink and feasting and dancing; they don't realise that the pleasure does not come from how many people they have around them, but what they do with those people. More pleasure can be created in one brief moment between two people than one whole evening of revelry. Do you understand?"

"I think I do…" Molly said quietly and she took her hands from Irene's hips and placed them against her shoulders. Gently, she rolled them until Irene was underneath her, her loose hair fanned out over the pillow. ""By creating pleasure for oneself, you can help create pleasure for the other person as well?"

"Exactly right, Lady Holmes."

Molly smiled. "I still don't quite see how this has anything to do with the – the…" she lowered her head, letting the word go.

"Act?" Irene suggested, raising an eyebrow, and Molly nodded. Irene waved a hand. "We'll get to that. But you must understand – seduction is so much more than a practical art. It's as I said – you must show your true self. You are not me, Molly – and I am not you. I cannot impersonate you just as much as you cannot impersonate me. You are a quieter creature; more inclined to loyalty and devotion than I am."

She spoke the words matter-of-factly, without malice, and Molly could see the truth in them. _I am loyal. Devoted to the townspeople I've known all my life and also to the people I've known only two years._ She remembered her father, when she was a child, laughing as Molly recounted to her with frustration a poem she had read about a knight falling for a beautiful damsel, only for the knight to abandon the damsel for war and never return. He had cuddled her and told her that because she had the capacity for love, did not mean others did. Not even characters in poems.

Irene sighed, brushing away strands of her hair from her face.

"It's like I said. Seduction, Molly, is many things, but above all – it is truth." Her cool blue eyes locked with Molly's. "We do not need to be anything other than ourselves."

* * *

The blessed relief of a breeze brushed along the morning air, and the sky was a cobalt blue against the grey white of the clouds. A page stood by Irene's horse, a creature with a smooth white and grey marbled skin. Already saddled and prepared, it whickered and stamped its hooves, as if impatient. Irene laughed and stroked at its snout, patting its neck.

"She was always an impatient creature," she said, looking back to Molly.

"You're leaving so soon?" Mycroft walked down the grassy path from the castle gate, and came to a stop behind Molly. She turned to see him raise an eyebrow. "And without your book?"

"I have some business in London," Irene answered, though her following words erased any sort of smile from Mycroft's face. "But I will return soon after, don't have doubt of that."

"We wish you a good journey," Molly said brightly, breaking the tension with a smile. Irene reached forward, taking her hand in thanks. Both women turned when the sound of hooves approached down the path. Two horses headed down the path. The hook-nosed page, birds hanging from his horse, galloped alongside his master. Sherlock was dressed in his hunting garments, the colour dark green, and his black boots muddied. Slowing to a trot, Sherlock dismissed the page and brought his horse to a stop, quickly dismounting.

"My lord," Molly said, swallowing back her surprise. "Did you have a successful hunting trip?"

"Very. Lady Adler, your book. May this prevent any return on your part." He spoke the words quickly, and roughly pressed a small black leather bound book into Irene's palm. Irene glanced towards Molly. A knowing smile crept onto her face. A curt clearing of the throat from Mycroft made Molly turn.

"Brother, if I had known you were planning to do this—"

"Mycroft, the book is returned. There's little you can do. No doubt your agents have gleaned from it what they can already anyway. We might as well let Lady Adler have her – assurance." He smirked, Molly hid a smile and his brother muttered a curse. Irene gave a grateful curtsey.

"Your kindness is appreciated." She stepped forward and took Sherlock by the arm, leaning up towards his ear. Her words were inaudible, but Molly watched as her husband blinked and turned his head and glanced towards her. His eyes narrowed, brows knitting together and Molly was struck by the notion that he was intrigued. Irene stepped back and looked towards her hostess. "Farewell, Lady Holmes."

She left no room for other goodbyes. Slipping her book into one of her saddlebags and closing it tight, she mounted her horse and took a hold of the reins. She gave a nod to Molly, one to Sherlock and turned. Her skirts flew out behind her against the breeze as she galloped quickly down the path and into the trees. She was barely out of sight before Sherlock turned and made his way back towards the castle gate and into the courtyard.

"Although my brother may have told you, Lady Holmes, that he married you out of convenience—" Mycroft's voice was tinged with amusement. When he looked to her, he gave one of his rare smiles. "I think he's started to grow rather fond of you."

* * *

_She has fire._ Sherlock shifted in his seat and stared at his book. However much he willed it, the words would not make sense to him. Other words continued to float through his head, over and over. _It would be wise—_ His dog whined, its snout resting on his knee. He brushed its fur with his fingers absentmindedly. _It would be wise of you to use it._ With a sigh, Sherlock snapped his book shut and raised his head. The fire burned in the hearth, its life only an hour long and created by a nervous, silent servant who had trembled against the cold as they put each log into the hearth and had lingered a little too long in order to feel its warmth. He looked up when a long shadow fell against the floor and over his face as its possessor entered. The heat of the fire increased when he shut the library doors. His brother turned around. Even in this dark yellow light, where the red of his doublet was nothing more than a murky brown, he wore his usual condescending look.

"I will admit – I was perplexed when you announced your intention to marry." His voice was steady, but quiet.

"The Moriarty family threatened our land, I—"

"That was solved with a mere matter of paying them off and a summons from the royal army." Sherlock looked away, his mouth pressed together and no response ready. Mycroft's triumph radiated.

"So you why did you marry her, brother? Convenience?"

"Of course not," Sherlock snapped. His voice sounded odd after such a long silence, echoing and loud within the confines of their father's library.

"Well then." Mycroft's eyebrows lilted upwards. "If you did not marry her for convenience, then you must've married her for something else. Loneliness, I assume. Yet perhaps it's grown into something else?"

Sherlock eyed his brother. His fingers twitched against his cheek. His reply was a barely audible mumble. "Perhaps."

"And still you stay married to the girl," Mycroft sighed as he settled into the chair opposite, his eyes gleaming from the firelight. "I don't see why. You could've easily wriggled out of it. You did not, after all, consummate the marriage."

Sherlock started up, and his mouth fell open with a question on his tongue, but before he had the chance, Mycroft had given a short, cold burst of a laugh.

"Come now – I may not be a butcher's son, but even I know pig's blood when I see it, little brother." Disbelief numbed Sherlock's mouth. Mycroft leaned forward, his fingers resting against the arms of the chair. "The 'bound before God' excuse is wearing a little thin, Sherlock."

The meaning of his remark was clear. Mycroft departed and Sherlock could do nothing but sink back into his chair, his fingers tucked against his cheek, as he mulled over the words of his brother. The book lay abandoned in his lap.

* * *

She wound the rope of her dressing gown between her fingers and she breathed slowly. She counted in her head. _One, two, three, four, five—_ All the time, her eyes flicked towards the heavy wooden door with the iron latch. She was alone in the bedchamber, her maid dismissed for the evening. Her bath she had drawn for herself, letting herself soak in the heat of it. She had scrubbed her skin until it was almost a light pink, perfumed herself, had dressed herself and now she sat on the bed with her eyes on the door and the ends of her hair damp and slightly curled.

She jumped when finally, the latch moved and the door was pushed open. He wore a deep purple doublet and trousers, golden-coloured stitching and the emblem of his house embroidered into the doublet. His expression was hesitant. His words more so.

"Good evening, my lady." He nodded once to her. She swallowed her smile and slid off the bed, standing.

"Good evening, my lord."

Another nod. She made to move forward, but he raised his head.

"Stop." The word surprised her. She blinked. He turned and shut the door, his palms pressed to the dark wood. The latch fell closed with a heavy clunk, and he turned his head back, looking at her over his shoulder. The light was dim, lit by only the pale moonlight and the yellow candle light. He swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was thick. "Sit."

She walked forward, one, two, three, four, five steps towards him. Her hand rested against the sleeve of his doublet, holding him.

"Sherlock." He straightened up, and allowed her to turn him. They faced one another, not as friends nor as strangers. That was in the past, a night that happened two years ago. She took his hands in hers and moved backwards. She stopped when they came to the bed. She sat, and finally broke their gaze. Hesitantly, she lowered her gaze. Her fingers toyed with the material of her nightgown and she brushed it downwards against her shoulder. Finally, she looked back to him. "Do you – desire me?"

He reached out and traced his hand up her arm, from her wrist towards her shoulder. The loose material of her nightgown slipped between his fingers. His touch ghosted over her collarbone, the base of her neck, the tip of her chin until his palm cupped at her cheek. She closed her eyes briefly, and when his thumb traced over the hollow of her cheek, they felt wet. He tipped her head up and she opened her eyes to find him smiling. Not the lord, nor the husband, but him.

"Yes."

She welcomed the taste of him.

* * *

His garments lay mixed with her nightgown in a crumpled heap upon the floor and she looked upon his naked body with a shiver of pleasure. The bedsheets, linen and wool and furs, fell against her body. His arms wrapped around her, his lips pressing gently against her shoulder and she grinned, nestling her head against his neck.

Remembering the bed tricks taught to her by Irene, her lips found his skin and she mouthed over his collarbone. His moan was soft, softer than she imagined and made her body warm. She felt her back press against the sheets and she glanced downwards, seeing his cock thick and heavy. Her body warmed further still as she flicked her gaze back up to him. Her hand gently descended, feeling his torso, his hips, and she touched at his cock. He groaned. The sound was sharper this time, more on the side of a hiss, but his pleasure was clear. She stroked him, his groans growing heavier. Suddenly, he grasped at her wrist and brought it upwards, pinning it above her head. She glanced at him, a question in her features. When he raised an eyebrow, she let out a giggle. Her apology was quiet in the still air, and he shook his head, holding her close again.

He let out a groan of surprise when she rolled them again and he landed on his back. His blue eyes widened as she straddled him, her thighs either side of his waist, and her brown eyes on his. She felt him, hardened and waiting, underneath her. Concern flickered in his face, and she stilled it by leaning forward and taking his mouth with hers. Shifting back a little, she took him in hand and into her heated, wet waiting folds with a soft gasp. Her head swam briefly, righting itself when she felt the pads of his fingertips touch at her hips. They moved down to cup at her backside, warmed underneath his touch. She fixed her eyes on him and saw it.

She was his wife, he was her husband, and in his gaze, she saw that same unreadable expression. Only now, she knew with every fibre of her being what the meaning really was. Trust. Security. Love. Buried deep before but now exposed and raw for her to see. She sank one hand into his curls, pressing the other against his torso and gradually began to move with him. Irene's words of truth floated up in the back of her mind. _To love is not a duty._ They hadn't quite made sense before, but now they did and she felt whole with the knowledge of it.

What other act held this much intimacy between two people? What other act could strip away any mask with such simple, primal actions? He sat up, his mouth lilted with a smile, his hands trailing up her back and down her thigh. She shivered again, continuing to move against him as he moved against her, the pair of them moving as one, increasing their speed.

"More," she burst out the word in a whisper, her skin slick with sweat, her tone heavy with her need and her wanting. "Please… _oh_—"

He read her like a book, smoothing his hand over towards her inner thigh, over her skin, opening her for him. He stroked at her, the movements gentle and slow, and her head tilted back as more short, quickened breaths tripped from her throat. They moved faster still and he smothered her with kisses. Muffled, muttered words and phrases spilled from underneath his tongue. Every one brought a smile to her lips and she cried out, her belly rippling with the force of her climax, her walls quaking around him.

With a call of her name, he followed her into oblivion.

* * *

They lay there together, the covers tangled between them and her arms loosely wrapped around his neck and their breaths slow. She was the one to move first, wriggling out from underneath the bedsheets and heading into the bath chamber. They shared the bath she drew, her kneeling in front of him as he sat back. Humming a lullaby, she washed at his skin with a cloth and laughed when she felt him kiss at her collarbone.

"How am I meant to wash you when you insist on distracting me?" she asked playfully. She tilted up an eyebrow and pressed her forehead to his. "Bad husband behaviour, Lord Holmes." He wound an arm around her waist and his knuckles kneaded gently at the small of her back, but he made no immediate reply, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

"I am sorry." She paused and sat back, the wet cloth pressed to his chest. He lowered his gaze, and his hand settled over hers. "I let this go on for so long."

Molly felt her lips flicker with the attempt of a smile, the attempt of comfort. "You did."

"I married you with the intent of having you as a companion," he admitted. "I just wasn't prepared to admit it. That was why I told you about the Moriarty threat. And, as a result, I've behaved – terribly – towards you."

"You have. And you did hurt me," Molly said softly. Another apology came from him, but it faded away when she leaned forward and pressed her finger to his lips.

"But we have time to make up for it." She said the words tenderly, but her eyes glinted with promise. "Do we not?"

His smile was warm. His arm curled tighter around her. Bending his head, he pressed a kiss to each of her breasts.

"That we do."


End file.
